


I Dream of the Court

by Red_Tigress



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, Team as Family, kink meme fill, post 1x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/pseuds/Red_Tigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tag for 1x05.</p>
<p>Kink Meme Fill for "After Homecoming, Porthos keeps having nightmares where it ended badly: he was hung, the Court blew up, the Musketeers abandoned him. He's ashamed to admit that he needs comfort and reassurance, but at the same time the lack of sleep starts wearing him down."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Dream of the Court

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, first official kink meme fill. Hope I did it justice! *salutes, throws out witty one-liner, jumps out a plane.*

He didn’t go willingly.

He struggled, but bound as he was there was little he could do as four men wrestled him up the stairs to the gallows. As he looked up, he caught sight of the noose, and fear replaced the anger in his heart like a flash freeze, leaving him cold and numb.

He was pushed into position, turned around to face the crowd of jeering faces. Front and center, three men stood calmly, staring at him impassively.

“P-please! Athos! Aramis!” Rough, scratchy rope wrapped around his neck, tightening almost gently. He was trembling with fear and despair. Athos was silent, meeting his eyes with nothing but disdain. Aramis only looked disappointed at his predicament. D’Artagnan shrugged. Even though the courtyard was filled with people’s screaming voices, he could still here the Musketeers as clearly as if they’d been standing right next to him.

“I told you he did it,” D’Artagnan said to Aramis.

“NO! ARAMIS! I-”

Aramis nodded, giving a resigned sigh, which was enough to silence Porthos better than any shout.

“Don’t do this,” Porthos pleaded with them. Tears stung his eyes as the rope was pulled upwards.

“A common end befitting of a common criminal,” Athos said quietly.

Porthos gave a defeated and anguished plea.

The floor dropped out from under him.

*

Porthos shot bolt upright with a gasp. He wrapped his hand around his throat, feeling only the light touch of linen there. He took his hand away, noticing it trembling in the thing dawn light. This had been the third night in a row he’d had the same dream since the Court. Last night he had tried drinking himself into a stupor. He passed out almost immediately, but it had not stopped the dream.

He stood up, picking up the mirror next to his washbasin and noting the dark circles under his eyes. He sighed tiredly, rubbing at his temples. It had felt so real. He knew in his heart his brothers would never betray him…but if he was so sure, why did these dreams plague him at night?

“Porthos?”

He blinked, startled out of his reverie staring at his bowl of porridge.

When had he gone to breakfast?

He looked up, noting that Aramis, Athos and d’Artagnan were all staring at him over their own breakfasts. “Are you alright?” Aramis asked. “You’ve been staring at your porridge for nearly ten minutes.”

“It’s…kind of cold now,” D’Artagnan said softly.

Porthos grunted. “So it is,” he said flashing them a quick smile. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. “Still good, though!” He said around a mouthful of food. They seemed to take him at his word and left him alone for the rest of the meal.

They saddled their horses and readied their supplies after that for a journey that would last a few days. The first day was a full day’s ride, and Athos was eager to get on their way. They alternated between an easy canter and walking. Much to Porthos’ dismay, he found the journey to be harder on him from his lack of sleep. His wariness prevailed, and he followed behind, letting his horse follow the others without direction from him. When they stopped for the evening, he helped set up camp, taking his dry rations and settling down into his bedroll almost immediately.

*

Flea lay bleeding on the ground, the light leaving her eyes. Porthos tried to get to her but Charon held a gun to his head. He couldn’t help her if he was dead. And he was Flea’s only hope. The others hadn’t come.

He was alone.

“Flea, hold on!” He tried to turn his head to look at Charon. “Please, please let me help her!”

“No, Porthos. You left us to die the day you abandoned us. We didn’t thrive. We died. You just waited this long to see.”

Flea’s body gave a final twitch, and Porthos screamed as he could see her eyes slide shut. Charon aimed his gun at the pile of powder kegs next to her body. “The Court is no more. You’ve doomed us all.”

*

Porthos convulsed, head bouncing off a rock on the ground as he jolted awake. It took him a few minutes to calm his breathing.

“Porthos! What’s wrong?” D’Artagnan, who had been keeping watch, whispered to him.

“An…an animal, crawled on my face,” he mumbled. He could just make out d’Artagnan’s features in the darkness.

“Sorry,” he said, grimacing.

“I can take the watch,” Porthos grumbled. “Awake now, anyway.”

“Alright,” d’Artagnan nodded his head in thanks. “Wake Athos in a few hours, then.” The young Gascon retreated to his own bedroll and Porthos settled his back against a tree. As he watched d’Artagnan settle down, he wondered how long his own anxieties would plague him. He felt ashamed, because none of the things he dreamed about had ever come to pass. Flea and the Court were safe. The other Musketeers had looked for him. Charon was dead, but in the end he had had to be stopped. Of course Porthos felt bad but…had he really loved Charon? Or had he just used him until he could get out?

Porthos shuffled these questions and the images from his nightmares of late in his head long into the night. They seemed to spiral in on one another until his mind just seemed a swirling vortex of depression and anxiety. He blinked, noticing the pre-dawn colors that bathed the forest around them in a light gray had suddenly appeared. He had let Athos sleep through his watch, and they were probably now approaching Aramis’.

Porthos sighed. He didn’t think he would sleep if he went back to bed now. His gaze traveled over his companions, all utterly still. They had nightmares too, and Porthos knew it was rare when they all slept this soundly. Aramis sometimes was still haunted by the woods after Savoy. Athos, haunted by memories of his brother and his murderer. D’Artagnan had only lost his father a few months before. What were Porthos’ dreams in comparison to their realities?

Athos woke up on his own a little after sunrise. When he noticed how late it was, he shot a pointed look at Porthos. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Porthos gave an easy shrug. “Wasn’t tired.”

“Your face says the opposite.”

Porthos looked away. “We’re all tired. Yesterday was a long ride. I’m as fine and fit as the rest of you.” He gave an easy smile.

Athos didn’t looked convinced, but he didn’t have enough evidence to contradict Porthos, so he let it slide.

After a cold breakfast of fruit and cheese, they set out again. They started out on a walk, and Porthos didn’t miss the way Athos looked back at him from time to time. Aramis, also being a keen observer, would do this when Athos did, and Porthos would just grin easily at them each time.

But Porthos was struggling to keep his eyes open. He’d only had a few hours sleep in about four nights, and as the morning dragged on and the hot sun beat down on him, his eyes drifted shut of their own accord. Images flashed across the backs of his eyelids in time to the motion of his horse. He mixed up Athos and Aramis’ disapproving looks from reality with their casual indifference of his dreams. He held Flea’s cold body against his own, recalled memories that didn’t exist of Charon telling him his plan as children.

There was a sudden burst of air as he felt his equilibrium change. His eyes snapped open just in time to see the ground rush up at him as he fell from his horse.

His horse, well trained, stopped in the road and Porthos heard d’Artagnan wheel his horse around in alarm. Embarassed more than anything, Porthos pushed himself onto his knees as Athos and Aramis saw what had happened and shouted his name.

“F-” he sucked in a breath, trying to get the wind back in his lungs as he grabbed hold of a stirrup. “Fine, I’m fine.” He tiredly sank back on his heels, not quite ready to stand yet.

Aramis rode up and slid down from his horse, to better inspect him. “Are you injured?”

“Are you ill?” d’Artagnan asked worriedly.

Aramis turned his head to look at his eyes, probably trying to see if he had a concussion. Porthos shrugged him off angrily, turning his head, but no doubt Aramis had seen the dark circles and wariness there. He’d been avoiding getting too close to anyone for just that reason the past few days, but judging by the look on Aramis’ face he had definitely noticed.

“Just dozed off,” he mumbled, getting to his feet.

“Because you didn’t sleep last night,” Athos accused riding up. “Or the night before that.”

Porthos glanced up at him, but then averted his eyes just as quickly.

“Probably the night before that, too. Am I wrong?”

Aramis cocked his head with worry as he tried to get Porthos to look at him. “Is that true?”

Porthos shrugged, glaring first at him, then Aramis. “It’s just been a bad week, is all. It’ll pass.”

He turned back to his horse, putting one foot in the stirrup. But instead of leaping up onto its back, he rested his head against the saddle for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of the worn leather.

“What’s going on?” Aramis asked quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Does it have to do with the Court?”

Porthos stiffened, but then mumbled “It’s nothing.” He pulled himself up onto his horse, which required more effort than usual.

Everyone was still looking at him disapprovingly, and he was starting to get angry. He already was starting to feel like a weak link lately, and their disapproving (or sad, in d’Artagnan’s case) were not helping. “Will you let it go?” he growled.

Aramis shared a glance with Athos, before the latter turned back to him. “We’ll look for someplace to camp. Clearly you are not fit to ride.”

Porthos flinched in surprise. He hated it when he couldn’t perform his duties, and the worst part was that Athos was right. Still, he fought. Lack of sleep was not a life-threatening injury, and he could go on. “I’m as well as-”

“You just fell out of your saddle on a _walk_!” D’Artagnan exclaimed. Porthos turned his glare on their youngest member, not used to be challenged by him. “You are most definitely not well.”

Aramis shrugged before pulling himself back onto his own horse, as if that settled the matter. Porthos was fuming, but he didn’t argue. Aramis let him ride before him, moving his horse behind Porthos, no doubt to keep an eye on him. Porthos sat in his own misery, too angry to let himself drift again, but too exhausted to put up a fight.

They rode for a little ways more, before Athos found a suitable campsite a little ways off the road. They set up camp quickly, and then Athos pointed to Porthos.

“Sleep. Now.”

“It’s the middle of the day!” he protested.

“That didn’t stop you earlier,” Aramis said dryly, holding out Porthos’ supplies.

Porthos snatched his bedroll away from him, and found a shady, soft spot of dirt. It was blessedly free of roots, and he tried to settle down. Porthos was so tired, he didn’t think he would dream. It didn’t take him long to drift off, the quiet murmurs of his comrades drifting over him.

*

“You’re a mongrel and a murderer,” Charon said. Porthos turned to see his old friend standing next to him as they looked out from a second story window towards the beggars outside. Charon’s shirt was red with his own blood from the gunshot wound that had killed him. “They won’t take you back. Not a second time.”

“What do you know of it?” Porthos growled. “You would have killed everyone here just to escape. Betrayed everyone. Betrayed Flea.”

“I did escape.” Charon smiled wryly, patting his gunshot wound. “You were the one that fled, that betrayed us. I risked everything to save you, while your precious Musketeers did _nothing_. I heard you call Athos’ name. But it was not Athos who saved you from the gallows.” His hand shot out and grabbed Porthos’ shirt, pulling him close. “It was me. And see how you repay me.”

“You did this to yourself,” Porthos argued.

“Then why have they not come looking for you? Why are you still here? You can’t go back to them, tail between your legs. They knew this would happen, they’ve always known about your reputation for being a thief. Why else would you be so touchy about it?”

“Shut up,” Porthos growled pushing him away.

Charon laughed bitterly. “You never talked to them about your past, because it was a shackle that bound you. What chance did you have, a stray dog, to fight alongside nobles and honest men?”

“I said, be quiet!” Porthos shouted.

Charon actually guffawed in his face. “They saw what happened to me. It’s only a matter of time before you get one of _them_ killed, too.”

“Stop,” Porthos whispered, defeat in his voice.

The door opened and Porthos turned to see Flea there, her shoulder and dress covered in blood. Another figure was in the shadows behind her, a dark-skinned woman that Porthos could only vaguely make out the features of. Her memory had become blurred with time, and Porthos was not only ashamed, but sickened at himself for forgetting.

“Everyone who loves you dies, Porthos,” Flea whispered. “And you are to blame.”

*

Porthos shot awake, his legs kicking into something soft that protested loudly when he hit it. Porthos ignored the outraged cry, scrambling backwards and looking around wildly. He took in the forest around him, greens and golds and yellows in the afternoon sunlight. His heart slowed somewhat as he remembered Flea was alive. She was safe and content, and she was alive. He took another moment to calm himself, before he looked around.

The thing he had kicked had been Aramis, who was looking at him with grave concern, while rubbing rubbing his thigh where Porthos’ boot had connected. To his rising shame, d’Artagnan and Athos were a short distance away, also looking at him. Athos half-stood, torn between rushing over and wanting to leave Porthos his dignity.

Porthos’ face flushed, and he pulled himself out of his bedroll. He grabbed his boots, tugging them on angrily.

“Where are you going? You only slept an hour!” Aramis reached over and grabbed his ankle, but Porthos angrily swatted his hand away.

“It doesn’t matter,” he grumbled. He saw Aramis’ face fall. “A walk, I am going on a walk,” he amended. “Can’t a man be afforded a little peace?” he snapped, looking at them all in turn.

“Of course,” Athos said, sitting back down slowly, almost guiltily. Porthos stood up, stomping off probably a little louder than was necessary. It took him only a minute to leave them behind in the clearing. The trees served to smother any noise they made and Porthos felt instantly more at peace.

He walked for a little while, taking his time as he stepped over rotting logs and picked his way through the undergrowth. Branches moved slightly when a bird or squirrel would take off at his presence and for the most part, Porthos basked in the solitude. He found a fallen tree that wasn’t wet with rot, and lay down on it to stare at the sky above, sunlight filtering down through the green leaves above him.

Now that he was here, alone and still, his thoughts caught up to him. Logically, he knew Flea didn’t blame him for Charon’s betrayal and subsequent death. They both knew that had all been Charon’s doing. Flea didn’t blame him in the least.

But he still felt responsible. If his and Charon’s places had been switched, would he have been desperate enough to…

He grunted. That was unfair to Flea. She had been in almost the same position as Charon, and she still loved her people. She would never, ever hurt them.

But then what about his mother? Fresh guilt washed over him as he remembered her in the dream, faceless and silent. The only person in his childhood who had ever loved him, cared for him and kept him relatively safe. And he couldn’t even remember her face. Was it his fault she was dead? Maybe if she hadn’t had another mouth to feed, maybe if it wasn’t for him, she could have made it on her own.

_This is stupid,_ Porthos berated himself, though he still felt wetness at his eyes. Of course it was not his fault for being born. But this week spent in the Court had re-awakened intense feelings of guilt and shame he had thought he’d suppressed.

The other Musketeers had cleared his name, but…if Charon hadn’t intervened, would he be dead?

He hated the uncertainty and the fear that clawed away at him now, keeping it from sleep. Porthos had always been direct, and this was an enemy he couldn’t fight against. How could he fight against himself?

He felt trapped. He didn’t want to sleep because of the nightmares. But he was unsure if they would continue on if he didn’t.

And wasn’t that just spectacular, that his own fears and his fears alone were preventing the Musketeers from completing their mission.

“Porthos?”

Speak of the devil, there was the mission commander himself. Porthos sighed deeply and sat up. “Here,” he called. There was the sound of brush being kicked aside, and Athos came into the space in front of the tree Porthos was sitting on. Porthos was sure he looked rather pathetic, sitting on top of a tree in the middle of the forest in nothing but his boots, trousers and linen shirt. He scrubbed a hand over his face warily.

“We need to talk,” Athos said calmly, skipping all pretense.

Porthos nodded, straightening slightly.

“I’m very concerned about you,” Athos started. “This isn’t like you. Normally you don’t let things get in the way of doing your duty.”

“I told you, it’s just been a bad week, is all.” Porthos didn’t meet his eyes.

“Aramis had a bad week when the Duke of Savoy was in the city, but he never fell off his horse.”

Porthos flinched at the comparison, and Athos knew he had caught on. He spoke with a softer tone. “Porthos, we have to know what’s going on. You’re put your own life in danger as well as ours.”

Porthos looked up at him then, and he was certain Athos could see the shame apparent on his face. “I know that. I know I’m being stupid.”

Athos sighed. “You are not being stupid, you are being stubborn. I know how difficult it can be to share something personal.”

“Really, Comte de Férre?” Porthos asked with a wry smile.

Athos glared at him, before turning away and letting out an exasperated huff. “I would still rather not give all the details, but…I’ll admit, begrudgingly, sharing some of them helped me…let go.” He turned back to Porthos. “You don’t have to tell us everything. But at least will you help us understand some things?”

“You really think it’ll help me sleep better?”

“It helped me,” Athos said.

Porthos found a little tension leave his body, and he stood up to clasp Athos on the shoulder. “I’m glad.”

Athos returned the gesture. “In your own time,” he said, letting his hand fall away and moving back to give Porthos some space. “It’s important that you know you shouldn’t feel ashamed about anything,” he said. Porthos nodded gratefully as Athos walked off.

Porthos, having never been very patient, decided that he’d had enough of his own time, and followed him back to the campsite.

*

Aramis and d’Artagnan had made a fire. They looked up as Athos and Porthos came out of the woods. They waited quietly as the other two men sat down. Porthos was exhausted, and noticed his hands shook minutely. From tiredness or nervousness he couldn’t tell.

“Since the Court,” Porthos began. “I’ve just been having a lot of nightmares. Things…that don’t make sense.”

“Dreams rarely make sense,” d’Artagnan said quietly. Aramis nodded in agreement, but remained silent.

“I keep seeing stuff like…the trial ending differently. Or the Court being destroyed.” Porthos didn’t add any details, knowing that they understood exactly what he was trying to tell them.

“You have to know if Charon hadn’t gotten there first, we would have stopped them,” Aramis said earnestly.

Porthos looked up, and gave a sincere smile. “I know. Which is why I feel ridiculous.”

“We all have our demons,” Athos said quietly. “But maybe you can sleep a little better now that you’ve shared yours.” Porthos nodded.

D’Artagnan looked suddenly guilty. “I’m sorry, for ever doubting you,” he blurted out. Aramis frowned and cuffed him on the ear.

Porthos blinked in surprise and Aramis gave him a bitter smile as the young Gascon rubbed his head. “But he now knows better. Don’t you?”

D’Artagnan nodded his head. “Yeah.”

“Go to sleep now. We will be here,” Athos said. It wasn’t a command this time. Just a reassurance.

Porthos, already feeling a heaviness lift from his chest just nodded in thanks as he got to his feet. He retreated to his own bedroll. And when he woke up a few hours later to find a Musketeer snoring lightly next to him, he just smiled, rolled over, and went back to sleep, content.

 


End file.
